Ms Tizzy

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About 2500 words

Had I known I would be writing about Ms Tizzy forty years later I might have asked for her real name.
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As it is my readers and I will forever know her as Ms Tizzy.

I learned about twenty years ago she was a teacher at a private school near my childhood home. But she was so much more than a teacher.

Forty plus years ago I just knew her as a strange old lady that never invited me for dinner OR dessert. Especially dessert.

Yeah, I was mad at her for many years. Some of those years I thought I was not good enough; others not smart enough; and still others I was totally confused.

But I need to go back forty plus years to explain.

I grew up in a white Catholic neighborhood in a Midwestern blue collar town. The Catholic school was two blocks away and many of my neighborhood playmates attended that school but only until high school.

It was many years later I learned that the Catholic high school cost too much for the average student in our neighborhood.

There was another school a couple of blocks in the other direction. It was run by an Episcopal church that many people did not like but it had a grade school that was free to anyone who participated in the church on a regular basis.

Many folks preferred this to the public school that was a block in yet another direction.

Now you know why this neighborhood was selected by most of its occupants – the many schools, kids and parks nearby - the diversity was immense.

In the last direction was what many folks of the town referred to as the Ghetto, less then a block away.

It was the older part of town that was originally settled by the railroad and foundry workers.

Small duplicate houses on almost as small lots without garages or even driveways and almost all supporting a garden and/or orchard in the back yard.

Most had a very tall old tree or trees on the south side to help shade and cool the home during the summer heat.

Most of the homes needed a coat of paint or more extensive repairs. There were several that had burned resulting in boarded up shells or empty lots that served as parks or community gardens.

There were several nice houses in the ghetto that the owners maintained – the owners were normally older business owners with extra cash. The rest of the homes were rentals – their tenants could have cared less.

So, one block west of us was the Ghetto. Its occupants mainly stayed in their area.

One block east was the public grade school and junior high sharing a park that was six by six city blocks – it was huge and drew people from all sides of town.

Baseball fields, basketball courts, tennis courts, a football field shared by two high schools, several pavilions for picnics. A giant long hill for sledding. Several play grounds – name the activity and the schools or parks probably had a place for it. There was even a place designated to fly kites. We had it all.

One block south was a neighborhood in transition from rich Catholic white to a poor non-denominational neighborhood. The Episcopal Church, its school, a Christian book store and a neighborhood tavern were the mainstays.

And two blocks north was the Catholic Cathedral, the Catholic School, the Catholic Hospital and a very large Rectory as well as all the support staff and buildings and businesses a hospital supports. The hospital was the city’s 2nd largest employer.

At twenty minutes before normal shift change, hundreds of people would be walking to work from the neighborhoods surrounding my house. It looked like a stampede of like dressed people and sometimes sounded like it.

Christmas Eve and Day were especially memorable. The herds would sing Christmas songs as they made their way to work.

What I have always wondered – why did we not see the stampede of people going home? Did they have shopping to do? Did they all stop and visit at the local watering hole? Did they get off work at different times? It was always a mystery and I have no good answer for it.

Right smack in the middle of all this diversity lived Ms Tizzy to the west of us on the ghetto border in a well kept brick home with a large garage and large side lot that she let us use as the neighborhood football field.

She had a roommate who worked for the state or federal government I think. They both drove large shiny new cars. I know one was a Lincoln, the other I think was a Cadillac but I am not sure.

I know that every two years, compared to most others’ four years, they would get new ones in the fall and sell the old ones from the football field.

The women were ‘strange’ compared to the rest of our neighbors but we didn’t really know why and I am not sure we cared. Many stories circulated about dead, jailed or MIA husbands and crazy siblings or children.

Early each morning Ms Tizzy’s roommate walked north for mass and Ms Tizzy went south for services. I slept in until I got a paper route then I always met them both either coming or going.

As the bells from their respective bell towers fought for dominance, they would return to their glass enclosed side porch drinking coffee while eating their breakfast on view for the whole neighborhood to enjoy.

When I left for school at twenty till eight each morning - which I did for all twelve years - her room mate would back her Lincoln out of the garage and use part of the empty lot to turn that monster around to glide down the drive to the street. She always made the horn give a short beep and waved behind her as she drove off.

Ms Tizzy followed her down the driveway usually walking and I would wave to them both as I walked to which ever public school I was attending.

At three each afternoon, Ms Tizzy and four to six girls of differing ages and race would walk up her driveway. The girls would spend a few hours doing what I was not sure but I do know the last thing they did was eat a meal and have dessert.

Most days they left carrying their schoolbooks and a sack of leftovers. They were always smiling and talking excitedly among themselves. My friends and I always wondered why we were never invited.

We smelled the meals and pies she/they made and saw the homemade ice cream she spooned on top of those pies during the summer time.

The only time we could have pie and ice cream was at the annual block party when Ms Tizzy and her roommate served it up after a giant pan of chicken soup was devoured – it took three large men to move the pot when it was full.

When I asked other adults about the lack of invitations, I was told the children that visited Ms Tizzy were of lesser means than I and needed guidance. That was all I was told and I did not understand until twenty years ago at a high school reunion.

My high school sweetheart was there and we were reminiscing about Ms Tizzy and a few of the nuns we both remembered.

My old sweetheart was a faithful Catholic but we both went to public school. Most of our playmates/friends had nuns for teachers. I met enough sisters to last me a life time, not that there is anything wrong with them.

My sweetheart went to the Episcopal school for a few years and then to the public schools for the seven through twelve grades.

Her dad did time for tax invasion when she was in grade school. Her mom worked for a local family as a day time nanny. My girl didn’t talk about it much but I know her Dad tried to make it up to her in high school – she just didn’t like him.

I met her in the seventh grade by handing her a note addressed to ‘Dear who ever you are’ and requesting permission to walk her home.

She accepted even though her parents had expressly forbid boys walking her home and the rest is history. She lived in the south transition neighborhood right across from the Ghetto.

We had a wonderful 7 years of fun, companionship and love – if it was love – and we still communicate today. But that is another story.

Twenty years later I found out that my sweetheart was a regular at Ms Tizzy’s for tutoring sessions, and what she called charm and etiquette lessons. She also had many dinners with pie and would take a sack containing her next day’s lunch home with her.

Ms Tizzy invited kids that were not getting enough food or/and guidance at home.

There were lots of those kids when I was growing up, I just did not know it.

Two local factories had closed and the railroad had laid off three quarters of its employees. Most of the males had left the Ghetto for greener pastures - many were in jail except most people called it the ‘big house’ which confused me for years.

Ms Tizzy and the kids studied and made dinner - she taught them how to cook and she taught them other things. The only requirement was that they come to her bible school class on Sunday and to other classes she held on different evenings of the week.

My father was white collar as were most of our neighbors so we always had plenty to eat. Plus I was male and my sisters were too young. That is why we never invited to dinner and dessert. But I did not know it at the time.

My high school sweetheart explained that Ms Tizzy taught her how to be a lady when she was a pre-teen – how to carry herself when she walked - chest out, stomach in, pretend there was an egg on her head and sway her butt as far as she could without falling over. She swore that is what she was taught.

Ms Tizzy taught her how to keep her privates private whenever she wore a skirt and to keep her ankles and knees together no matter what she was wearing – at least until she was eighteen.

She asked if I ever wondered why I could never get to any base until she turned 18. Blame Ms Tizzy.

Ms Tizzy taught them how to be ladies and how to fight off all the men chasing after their virginity.

She taught them how to plan a family but wished/hoped that all would go to college and helped them research different colleges and financial aid sources.

She helped them dream and gave them the tools to attain those dreams.

I never noticed but on the second Sunday of the month, all current and previous attendees would come for Sunday brunch and share their successes and failures.

The odd thing at the time – the previous attendees were all under 18. Not one had graduated yet.

Ms Tizzy taught over two hundred girls during her time at the Episcopal school and 85 of them were invited to her house and the special classes and dinners.

She moved on to a university position after her roommate died. That was the year I graduated high school and my family moved on to another city and my sweetheart and I parted ways.

About twenty years ago we had a reunion and my old sweetheart and I talked about Ms Tizzy. No one else at the reunion knew her but my sweetheart had kept in touch with her. And most of the 84 other women Ms Tizzy had affected.

Of the 85, 84 had attended college. Twenty-Five obtained advanced degrees, twenty of them received a doctoral in their field of study. Four of them became medical doctors. Forty-three of them became teachers.

Not one gave birth out of wedlock - only four have not married and NONE of the others have divorced.

A few months ago my sweetheart’s mother died and we had occasion to chat and update each other on our lives.

The numbers are still accurate. The one who did not go to college was my sweetheart’s sister. She became a sister – a nun – a celibate which completely blows my mind – I knew her when she was a teenager.

I saw more of her private parts than her sister’s – she loved to tease me - she was very wild – when I saw her in a habit my first thought was that it fit her perfectly.

At the funeral Sister sister gave me a hug and then she pinched my butt – just like she used to do so many years ago. She told me that if she had not promised her sister, she would probably be my wife. I did not know what to say but that is another story.

Ms Tizzy’s girls still meet at least four times a year and until about a year ago, Ms Tizzy joined them at almost every meeting.

She died ten minutes after she got home from a meeting on her birthday – two hours after telling them this would be her last appearance – she could feel something was wrong. All the girls said she looked great for 90+.

I assumed they had a big deal to celebrate her accomplishments. A few of them installed a very small plague at her favorite place in a small park near her old school.

The fact that she was a hero was not lost on them but they had all made a promise – a simple promise – a gigantic promise that even my high school sweetheart would not give up.

Ms Tizzy asked that no one reveal her real name or any personal details while alive or dead.

And I could get nothing else. Nothing.

Later that evening my old sweetheart’s husband took me aside to tell me the rest of the story but swore me to secrecy. After a recent short talk, he and his wife agreed I could say this:

‘Ms Tizzy was the daughter of one of, if not the richest couple in the state. But she was disowned at age 24 when she confessed her love for an older woman, her room mate.’

They never told me her name and I am sure I would rather not know.

Recently I read a story in the local paper about a church program that does much the same as Ms Tizzy did forty years ago.

Children come for some learning, some guidance some dinner and some simple companionship with an adult.

I wonder if the woman touted in that story was one of Ms Tizzy’s girls? I know I’ll never find out but wouldn’t that just fit so perfectly.